Promise
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Sherlock takes a bullet for John, and John forces him to make a promise he can't possibly keep.
1. Chapter 1

I race around a back alley corner, Sherlock behind me. It's rare that he's behind me, but Lestrade held him back to shout a warning as I took off running after our man. The suspect may have murdered two women. He got away from us once; he will not get away again.

I feel my gun in the pocket of my coat, but I don't take it out—not yet. Having something in my hand will only slow me down, and I like being in front for once. I can hear Sherlock behind me, the tap of his dress shoes on pavement. I've often wondered how the man runs with such speed in dress shoes. Then again, he does everything like a cat: jump, perch, sprint. He's the human equivalent of a cheetah.

The sun has almost set, but my eyes are quick to adjust to dim light. I acquired quite a few things in the war, the least of which was a bullet wound. My reflexes are faster, my vision, keener. I hear things other people don't—like the sound of fumbling footsteps ahead, for instance.

We've got him. He won't shoot another woman dead. As I rush past a dumpster, only now do I pull my weapon. Best to be careful. We know the suspect is armed.

I round another corner. There is a dark shape ten feet ahead of me, frozen in place, blocked by a tall chain link fence. I move to aim, but the suspect already has me in his sights. The world slows.

In Afghanistan, I had no time to prepare for being shot. The bullet hit me in the shoulder like a heavy raindrop. There was no pain, only a dull knowledge that something was wrong. I have time now to prepare. I have time to wince at the sound of the gun going off. I have time to pull my own trigger, but I'm seconds too late. I know that.

Instead of the expected thud and ache of a bullet wound, I see black. I wonder if I've been killed. Is this death? No, I don't suppose death has weight, but there is a weight against me: a heavy, long-limbed weight in a black coat. Only when I hear him moan, softly, do I realize I have Sherlock pressed against me. He slouches until my arms hold him around the chest.

"Sherlock."

"Nice shot."

I take steps back until I have Sherlock on the ground. He's talking about my shot. The suspect is dead, ten feet in front of us. Sherlock's eyes stare at the sky. His breath puffs out in labored wheezes, and this is not due to our chase. I have a horrible fear that Sherlock Holmes just took a bullet for me.

I kneel next to him and pull at his heavy coat. He wears a black shirt beneath, so I can't see a blossom of blood. I use my hands to search over his torso until I find warm wetness that spreads across the right side of his upper chest. When I pull my hand away, my palm is red.

"Jesus, Sherlock." I turn to look down the alley to see if backup has arrived. I hear nothing. Where is Lestrade?

I remove Sherlock's scarf and shove the material against his shoulder. I can now see red on his throat. Blood has pooled in the triangle at the base of his neck. I push hard on the wound until he hisses. Then, I look back at the dead man in the alley and wish I could kill him again.


	2. Chapter 2

I spent the last hour stomping up and down the hallway with such force the nurses thought I would wear a path. I yelled at Lestrade until he shouted back about needing a smoke. Then, the doctor finally came out and said everything was okay. I wanted to tell him everything was absolutely not bloody okay.

Now, I sit here listening to machines beep. Lestrade came back, and I didn't apologize. He left once he knew Sherlock was okay.

This wrath is unfamiliar. My hands shake, so I curl them into fists. I want to break something.

Meanwhile, Sherlock might as well be asleep. In the year we've lived together, I've seen him asleep once, and that was by accident. I returned home from a failed date to find him slumped over the kitchen table surrounded by his microscope and odd-colored liquids that could have possibly burnt through iron. I nudged him and told him to go to bed.

He startled awake and looked up at me. The disorientation on his face was foreign. He looked like a child roused from an afternoon nap. I remember my heart warmed at the image. Sherlock had shown me something secret, albeit accidental—a side of himself no one else ever saw.

Now, I sit in the hospital room and close my eyes. I focus on that remembered expression on his face. I focus on the bleary eyes and the wrinkle on his cheek, left from leaning on his shirtsleeve. The image calms me at least enough to unclench my fists.

"John?"

My head shoots upward at the sound of his voice. His eyes are still shut, but his fingers reach away from the coarse hospital linen until I realize he's reaching for me. I take his hand.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

"Are you all right?"

"What?" I scoot the chair closer. "Are you mad? You've been shot. Are _you_ all right?"

His eyes wrinkle as though he tries to squeeze them even further shut. Then, he blinks. There's that unfamiliar look again: disorientation. He winces.

"Do you need the nurse? I can get a nurse."

He doesn't let go of my hand. "No. Just …" He blows out a slow breath of air. "Just stay. I'm fine."

"What were you thinking, jumping in front of a bullet?"

He coughs once. "I calculated the trajectory of the suspect's aim would have shattered your skull, while with our difference in height, I would sustain only minor injuries to the shoulder."

I pull my hand away and have to pace toward the door so I don't strangle him. "Sherlock, what if you were wrong? What if the bullet lodged right in your heart?"

"The potentiality was worth the risk."

Only Sherlock bloody Holmes would use a six-syllable word while wearing nothing but a paper gown. I turn and point. "You had no right to take that risk."

His brow furrows. "You would do the same for me."

He's always right. I hate that he's always right. About every case, every crossword puzzle, and every relationship I've ever had: Sherlock is always right. I slouch back down in the chair by his bed and bury my head in my hands.

"John—"

"Don't. Just … don't." I'm trying to process my feelings. The wrath has melted, changed. Sherlock is unknowingly peeling back the anger to reveal what I've sensed ever since I held him to me in the alley: fear. Even in the war, I never knew fear like this. For a moment in that alley, I thought Sherlock was dead—my best friend, torn from me by a faceless murderer.

Again, my hands begin to shake.

"John?"

I raise my head.

He looks at me the way he looks at Lestrade when he's said something particularly dense. "You're being childish."

The wrath is back. "Childish? I'm being …" I pull air in through my nose and exhale through my mouth. It's 2 AM. Best not to wake the entire floor. I stand up and hover over his bed like a grim reaper. I'm so angry, my whisper sounds like a growl. "You will not die for me. Ever."

"It's unrealistic to promise something like that."

I put my hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Promise me."

His blue eyes pin me like darts. I can't move closer or further away. He doesn't understand my outburst. That much is obvious. He doesn't understand why my hand on his shoulder shakes. I would think he didn't understand what it means to love someone, but he does; he proved that tonight in the alley.

"John—"

I close my eyes. "Just say the words, Sherlock, even if they aren't true."

He is silent. While I wait, my hand moves to the side of his neck so I can feel his pulse. I focus on the beating of his heart like a mantra.

Finally, he says, "I promise."

He's right: a promise like that can never be kept, not for sure. For now, I lean my forehead against his chest and breathe. He puts his left hand on my back. For now, we're both alive, and for now, that's all I need.


End file.
